


who could ask to be unbroken (or to be brave again)

by Piyo13



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family Feels, Found Family, Gen, Mostly Canon Compliant, do not copy to another site, tauriel is fëanorian
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-16
Updated: 2019-07-16
Packaged: 2020-06-29 11:54:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,309
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19829674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Piyo13/pseuds/Piyo13
Summary: One day, while on a routine mission out from the Greenwood, Tauriel hears a mysterious singing on the wind, and decides to investigate.





	who could ask to be unbroken (or to be brave again)

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to emeraldblazingsky and halbeary for beta-reading! any remaining errors or inconsistencies are my own :')
> 
> title comes from hozier's "to noisemaking (sing)", though i never once listened to that song through the entire writing of this fic, and tbh i'm not even sure if the lyric is right because two different websites said two different versions of that line but hey
> 
> n.b., lindimaitar means "composer"

Tauriel is part of the honor guard sent to accompany the trading Easterlings home—or at least, down to the Sea of Rhûn, whereupon the traders would retreat alone aboard their great ships—when she hears it. Faint, even to her ears, and the Easterlings show no sign of being aware of it, but there is singing on the wind, in a language she has never heard before. It doesn't sound like the tongue of the Easterlings; Tauriel would almost think it Sindarin from the cadence, save that she can't understand a single word. She exchanges a glance with Ruel, but it is just singing, after all, and so they do nothing about it. 

That night, over the crackling of the smile fire that Tauriel and Ruel share with two of the Easterling merchants and one of their own guards, Tauriel brings it up. They're only a day's walk from the Sea, now, and if the singer _is_ someone dangerous, the Easterlings should be warned. 

"I would like to advise on a possible threat," she begins. The guard, Zifun, looks at her warily. "Ruel and I heard singing on the wind, today, in a foreign tongue." The change is immediate—Zifun's posture relaxes, and the other two focus on her. Yanli, one of the merchants, stops ladling out soup. The other merchant, Zhenghua, looks excited. 

"What did the singing sound like?" he demands. Tauriel chances a look over at Ruel, who appears equally confused. "Was it like—" Zhenghua breaks off and hums a verse. His voice is lower, the notes not quite the same, but even Tauriel—never the most musically talented of Elves—is able to recognize the tune. 

"That's the one," Ruel says, frowning at Zhenghua. "You know this singer?"

"Not personally," Zhenghua replies, at the same time as Yanli says, "We all know him."

Ruel and Tauriel look between the two of them until Zifun speaks up.

"What they mean is, the singer is a legend among us, albeit a legend that reveals itself as true at times. They say he comes from lands far to the West, from before time itself, and now wanders the known lands, spreading stories of his people, that they not be forgotten to time."

"It's considered good luck to hear him, and even better to meet him, for he will immortalize you with song," Yanli adds, and then grins. "Though I suppose you Elves have no need of that, do you?"

Ruel waves off the comment with a hand. "Is the singer an Elf, then?"

Zifun is the one who answers, this time. "We don't know—he always wears a hood. Some say it can't even be shaken off. But his songs are able to conjure up images of his stories, or so it goes."

"Huh," Tauriel says. Ruel gives her a look like she already knows what Tauriel is planning, and Tauriel ignores said look because she'll do what she wants, anyways.

Two days later, Ruel sighs noisily as Tauriel pulls her mount to a stop. 

"You're really certain you want to go track this singing maybe-Elf which, may I remind you, you know nothing of save a half-forgotten Easterling legend?"

Tauriel looks south, the direction the wind had brought the music from. "I'd certainly like to try. Aren't you curious?"

"Not enough to want to try and track him. And across the plains of Rhovanion, no less."

Tauriel grins. "Well, good enough that one of us is, then. I'll let you know, afterwards."

"You really are crazy sometimes, you know?" Ruel said, expression fond. Tauriel's used to hearing that jest, by now—she's the youngest Elf to join the Easterling guard, and has been since her first jaunt, twenty-odd years ago. She loves the Greenwood, of course; but she also loves seeing what lies beyond it, and this is as good a way as any of achieving that end. And, well—the honor guard is nominally to fend off any orcs that might advance on the trading party, but the last orc raid in these lands happened well before Tauriel joined. It's safe as anything. 

"So?" Tauriel asks, and Ruel looks off into the distance for a moment, a smile gracing her features.

"It appears that Rochtal took a lameness to his rear left," she says, dismounting easily. Her horse snorts. "I guess we'll have to go on foot, and take many rests. Why, it'll probably take us double the time to reach the borders of Mirkwood." Which means Tauriel will have a week and a half to track, if she and Firaithel move quickly enough to rendezvous with Ruel. No one will even need to know she was gone, which is, after all, the point. 

"Ruel, you really are the best."

"You're morally obligated to bring me at least one pheasant," Ruel replies, starting to walk off in the general direction of Greenwood. 

"I'll bring you two," Tauriel promises, wheeling Firaithel. She squeezes her knees, and Firaithel flicks an ear before springing into a quick canter that eats up miles. 

The first two days turn up nothing. It doesn't help that Tauriel isn't sure what, exactly, she's looking for in the first place. The plains of Rhovanion are vast and endless, and though the open sky at night is a marvel of stars and waxing moon, the abundance of thick grasses so different from the Greenwood's floors makes tracking difficult, even for Tauriel, who trained as a hunter before deciding the guard would let her more easily into the wider world.

On the second night, it rains. It is a thunderstorm of the kind they don't get in the Greenwood, with towering clouds and lighting painting the dark sky all shades of pink and purple and green. In the howling of the wind, Tauriel almost thinks she can make out a song. 

The third morning, she finally has luck, that hidden ingredient of successful tracking that none of her teachers ever seemed to fully acknowledge. A small stream had flooded with the storm and then retreated back into its banks overnight, leaving a swath of soft, muddy earth in its wake. 

Stamped into the mud are a set of footprints. The soles of whatever boots made them are clearly worn thin, but strong enough to still withstand the water. She dismounts and follows them into the stream, Firaithel trailing behind her, and then back out onto the opposite side. The trail leads away from the water, some of the mud streaks against the grass already dry and caking off—Tauriel guesses that the mysterious singer is a few hours passed, already. 

Still, he's on foot and she has a horse. She mounts up again and moves Firaithel off in that general direction, eyes focused ahead—at several points, grass stems are still flattened, and after an hour or two of pursuit, she sees a smudge of white in the air that can only be a wet-burning campfire. 

She dismounts once more and leaves Firaithel to graze in some young green grass once she hears singing, near sunset. It's off and on, hardly ever the same tune more than once, but there nonetheless. Tauriel pulls the hood of her cloak up—for all that the Easterlings swear the mysterious singer is benign, Tauriel would prefer to exercise caution. This, at least, is a lesson she learned early on. She approaches silently, blending her movement into that of the wind rippling the grasses. 

The singer, when she gets a clear line of sight to him, is worse off for the wear. He has no hood, but his ears are covered by a matted, gnarled mass of black hair, and no being that enjoys regular meals would look that thin and jagged. His clothes are a patchwork of styles and colors, but all are equally threadbare, save the scarf. It bears patterns Tauriel only knows from traded books about Harad, and still looks thick and new. Tauriel wonders how he got it. The stranger's gloves are thin leather and fingerless, and when he grips a few wet sticks to toss onto the fire, he does so gingerly. 

Tauriel also sees the exact moment he realizes she's there, because his entire body freezes and he spins fluidly, a wash of Power Tauriel hadn't noticed before imbuing his frame and making him large and noble, one hand reaching under his slate grey outer robes to draw a dagger, which he holds with the same kind of ease that only those Elves who know how to use them do. Tauriel's hands find her hunting knives on instinct, and she draws them both, knowing she's been found. 

Then the stranger's eyes, narrowed at first, fly wide open, and the dagger falls to the ground.

"Pityo?" he says, his voice much harsher spoken than when singing. He starts to say something else in that not-quite-Sindarin, but then Tauriel shifts and stands straighter, her hood falling off as she does so. 

"Greetings," she says cautiously, in the formal Sindarin of Thranduil's court. The strange Elf—she's sure he's an Elf now; the Power from earlier is a clue, and the matted hair has shifted to reveal pointed ears—deflates, his entire form sagging. Then he catches himself, standing upright. He's a handspan or two taller than her. 

"You'd do better if one of your blades was reversed," he says, in perfect, if accented, Sindarin. His voice is still rough, but now that she's heard more, she realizes it's not rough out of maliciousness; that’s just how he speaks. His eyes, the same slate color as his robes and oddly bright, are soft, almost fond. It raises the hair on the back of Tauriel's neck. She scowls, and tightens her grip on her blades. She's gotten this far wielding her knives the way they are; why should she change them based on one weird stranger's opinion?

"Who are you?" she growls, rather than acknowledging his comment. 

The Elf cocks his head, as if surprised. "Lindimaitar," he replies after a beat. One of his hands, limp now, gestures to a small lap harp, sitting dry atop a travelling bag near the smoky fire. Lindimaitar, if that really is his name, shakes his head slightly and smiles at something Tauriel doesn't understand. "Lindimaitar, hailing from the West. Heading towards, oh, Arnor, maybe. I wander. But come—my fire may be more smoke than flame, but it is still warm enough to cook. I managed to catch a hare." He sounds inordinately pleased with himself about this, and gives her a hopeful expression. Tauriel furrows her brows at him. 

"Why should I trust you?"

"And good, that you don't. But Arda has only ever had one Enemy, and I promise you that I am not he. I will not intentionally harm you—you can take my knife, if you would like." It's still on the ground, mud spotted on the blade. Lindimaitar is back to looking worn down, the Power that had coursed through him earlier gone now. He doesn't press as Tauriel thinks things over, waiting with that hopeful look. 

He seems... lonely. 

This, more than anything, is what convinces Tauriel to accept his offer. That, and the fact that he's clearly an Elf, and no Orc. Tauriel re-sheathes her knives, and a funny look crosses Lindimaitar's face.

"You really should consider reverse-wielding one, you know. Your dominant hand." And, okay—Tauriel's still a little miffed by that.

"You said you were a harper," she replies, her Sindarin slipping into her more usual informal register. Lindimaitar smiles sadly at her. 

"I didn't say that, actually. I'm... a wanderer, now, more than anything. But I once knew many who fought as you do, with twin blades. Almost all held one in reverse, and certainly all who used their hunting knives as weapons did." Tauriel purses her lips. King Thranduil, now that she thinks about it, uses one of his swords reversed, doesn't he? ...maybe this Lindimaitar _does_ know what he's talking about. "I could show you later, if you would like. My—I once knew very well one of those I speak of. I'm familiar with many of their forms." Tauriel hesitates, and Lindimaitar waves a hand between them. "Well, plenty of time to think it over," he says. "For now, come, we'll sit and cook and you can tell me what skills brought you to me, for I rather thought I was alone on this plain."

"I'll—I'll call my horse first, if that's alright?" 

Lindimaitar's eyes light up as he nods. Tauriel turns away from him, brings her fingers to her lips, and lets out a high-pitched whistle. Then she returns to Lindimaitar's fire. It really isn't warm in the least—she still has some enchanted kindling in her saddlebags, the kind that burns long and hot regardless of the circumstances. She resolves to add some to the fire once Firaithel arrives. 

"And so I'm a wanderer, but you are...?" Lindimaitar asks. As far as Tauriel can tell, he seems genuinely curious. Her impression of loneliness grows stronger. 

"I'm a guard, from the Greenwood Realm, sent to accompany traders on their way home."

"There's a remarkable lack of traders, right here," Lindimaitar quips, lips quirked as he gestures to the area immediately surrounding them. Tauriel forces her cheeks to not heat up. 

"Yes, well. We heard singing a few days ago, and I decided to come investigate." Lindimaitar seems impressed by this statement, thought by which part, Tauriel can't say.

"Could have been dangerous," he says mildly, after a second.

"The Easterlings seem to believe you sing not out of malice, but to remember your people," she says. Not asks, necessarily, but there are a lot of questions in there nonetheless. Lindimaitar dodges all of them, save one.

"Amongst other things." His eyes focus briefly far into the distance, over Tauriel's shoulder. Tauriel doesn't think that she would see anything, if she were to turn and look for herself. 

They're interrupted by the arrival of Firaithel, her hooves beating a dull tempo into the dirt as she enters their camp with a toss of her mane. Lindimaitar stands up immediately and bows to her, saying something in that not-Sindarin which has Firaithel perking her ears and snuffling softly at his face. Tauriel decides to let him be—he knows what he's doing, and Firaithel wouldn't let him close if she didn't trust him—and heads instead to her saddlebags, retrieving kindling and spices.

Using the kindling, she begins to build up the fire into something more than a few wet embers. Then she picks up the hare, which had been sitting on a mat of dried grasses nearby, unskinned. The stasis spell on it is strong, still, and Tauriel dissolves just enough of it to be able to skin the meat—a small price to pay for the sharing of food. The near-perfect hide, she re-weaves the stasis spell around, while the meat goes onto a stripped stick and then over the fire.

Suddenly, Lindimaitar is singing, his voice running as liquid over stone. Tauriel forgets to breathe—

And then, suddenly as it began, it's over. Tauriel, remembering now how to move, turns to look; Firaithel's saddle is on the ground, and Lindimaitar is gingerly removing her bridle. 

"Sorry," he says, when he realizes she's looking. "Knots are difficult for me."

Tauriel looks back at the saddle—seeing it again, it looks more like it's slipped and fallen off Firaithel's back, rather than having been removed. He must have used his magic to untie the girth, though why he should let the saddle fall rather than just lift it off is a mystery. He strokes Firaithel's nose a few times, then sets the bridle over the saddlebags before returning to the fire. 

"Well done," he says, nodding to the cheerily crackling flames and the spiced hare roasting over them.

"You know your way around horses," Tauriel replies. Lindimaitar smiles, broadly enough that his features round out in a way that could be beautiful, if he'd been fed more regularly. 

"Yes. I used to be a Rider." The tone with which he says it makes it sound more like a title than an adjective, though Tauriel supposes it could also just come down to his strange accent. She almost asks for more information, but he begins to speak again of his own accord, telling her what a fine mare Firaithel is, and then recounting of horses he's known and ridden, their lives and personalities, and who had inherited a parents' coloring and who hadn't. By the time the hare is thoroughly cooked, Tauriel is laughing along to his story of a colt who'd ridden a log downriver, only to run back to his mother and try to find another log with which to do it again. 

Tauriel pulls the hare off the fire and divides it up, handing Lindimaitar the larger portion—a fact which he doesn't seem to notice, his entire attention devoted to eating. 

Who knows when the last time he had a good meal was. Not recently, that's for sure.

The fire gets banked to the coals once they're done, moon rising high and full above them. Lindimaitar smiles at it. He smiles frequently and easily, a sharp contrast to the rest of his appearance. Tauriel wonders about that, and a million other things about this odd Elf. 

"I knew him, once," he says, nodding at the moon; then, before Tauriel can ask what _that_ means, he carries on: "I can teach you the forms in the morning, if you would like. For now—would you mind if I sang a song?"

"I—no, go ahead?" Tauriel says, rearranging her cloak around herself. She hadn't slept much, last night, what with the storm, and she could use a bit of it before practicing with weapons. 

"Thank you," Lindimaitar says, and takes a breath before launching into song. Tauriel can't understand the words, but finds she doesn't need to: images rise unbidden to her mind's eye, and when she eventually falls asleep, it's with an intense feeling of love and family swirling in her heart. 

The next morning, true to his word, Lindimaitar takes to teaching her how to wield her knife in reverse. His demeanor changes entirely, eyes and words now coming sharp and authoritative, sounding for all the world like the few Greenwood generals that had actually seen the last war. Gone is the friendly, smiling Elf from the night before. Most interestingly, he never picks up a dagger himself, only correcting Tauriel with light touches and a mental image when truly necessary to guide her through the forms. Tauriel begins to notice, then, how oddly he holds his hands—never closing, never gripping, his fingers only moving as much as they must to accomplish a task. His right hand seems stiffer than his left, and with a flash of insight, Tauriel remembers how carefully he'd handled Firaithel's bridle the night before. 

No wonder knots are difficult for him, especially ones of thick leather. 

A sharp pain draws Tauriel back to the present, Lindimaitar's forearm having hit her reversed blade clean from her hand. Tauriel stops letting herself be distracted. 

They eat cram from Tauriel's saddlebags that night, and she catches two pheasants as the sun rises the next morning. Lindimaitar looks proud of her, though he goes no easier on her with their lessons that day.

By the third day with him—seventh overall, she really needs to start heading back now, or else Ruel will be forced to explain her absence—Tauriel has only managed to learn two of the forms to Lindimaitar's satisfaction. 

"You've done quite well, actually," Lindimaitar says when she tells him as much in a fit of frustration. "My brothers never learned half as fast."

They bid each other farewell the next day. Tauriel leaves him the rest of the cram, as well as a hare and the other pheasant—she'll catch another one for Ruel on the way back. She's about to mount up when Lindimaitar stops her, a nervous twitch in his ears. 

"I have one question to ask of you, if I may?"

"Of course," Tauriel replies. She considers him a mentor of sorts, by now. Of course he can ask. 

"Do your parents ever travel this way?"

...ah. 

Tauriel shakes her head, twiddling with a loose fiber on the saddle blanket to avoid eye contact. "No. They died when I was very small."

"Oh." Lindimaitar places his hand on her shoulder. It's warm, and she feels a soft _sorrow-love-support-family_ brush her mind. She manages a smile at Lindimaitar. 

"Thank you. It's an old wound, now, but..."

He nods. "Old wounds still ache. No being should have to bear that pain." The hand on her shoulder squeezes slightly, and then Lindimaitar lets go. "Look for me next year," he says, and Tauriel smiles in earnest this time. Their odds for meeting up will be slim, but nonetheless. "I will try to be in the same area when the time comes."

"May your voice sing strong as ever," Tauriel says. 

"And your mount swift as the wind," he replies. There's no Power in his words, but it feels like a benediction nonetheless. Tauriel mounts, finally, and then urges Firaithel into a canter—they have ground to cover. As their distance grows, the wind pushes on their tail, and with it, Tauriel hears the sound of singing. She smiles.

"How was it?" Ruel asks as Tauriel rides into her camp and drops a pheasant into her lap. 

"I found him," Tauriel says, and begins tending to Firaithel. 

"And?"

"...he seemed lonely."

"So you stayed and were company, I'd imagine," Ruel says. Tauriel throws Firaithel's brush at her. "I guess you'll just have to find him again next year, huh," Ruel adds, after a moment of silence. In spite of herself, Tauriel laughs. 

"That's exactly what I told him."

* * *

Maglor stretches. She should be here, soon. He'd seen the Easterling party heading east a few days ago, seen the bright copper of Tauriel's hair gleaming in the sun. It never fails to remind him of Ambarussa, even now, ten years into knowing Tauriel as her own elleth. He wonders, as he often does, whether Tauriel is even aware of who she is. Certainly, hair that color can't belong to any but a Fëanorian; Maglor hasn't neared himself to any major Elven outpost in thousands of years, but he can't imagine that will have changed. She still hasn't realized who _he_ is, though...

But it's not just her appearance, either. Her Power, too, is Fëanorian; at the very least, anyone who had lived to see the Noldor would recognize the song of her fëa as one of them. That fire, that restlessness... Thranduil must know, he thinks, for Thranduil is the son of Oropher of Doriath, and the Doriathrim of all the Sindar suffered possibly the most at the hands of Maglor and his kin. But Tauriel always speaks of him with respect, and a little bit of love, and it reminds Maglor achingly of the bond he and Maedhros once had with Elrond and Elros. 

Someday, he will go visit Elrond. 

Probably. 

In a few years.

He doesn't know if he can bear to face him, yet. 

His grandniece, on the other hand... Maglor's ears catch the sound of hoofbeats far off, and he settles down more comfortably against his pack. When she arrives, Tauriel is smiling. 

"Hail, Lindimaitar!" she says, dismounting in one smooth motion and extending her hand outward, palm up, in the Sindarin gesture of greeting. Maglor itches to pull her into a hug, but as he still hasn't revealed his true identity ( _and when will you?_ a snide voice in the back of his mind asks. Maglor shoves it away; he'll deal with that later), he settles for returning the motion with as much warmth as he can manage. 

"Hail, Tauriel. What news from the woods?"

Tauriel has brought with her a freshly-caught hare, as well as bread and cheese. She begins to tend to a fire and prepare the hare, and Maglor finds himself occupied with Firaithel; she's larger and with less fur than any of the mounts from the Gap, but those days were ones of relative peace, and Maglor enjoys her company. Throughout it all, he and Tauriel make easy conversation, sharing news from the Greenwood and from any places Maglor has seen fit to wander to since the last year. 

They eat, and they talk some more, and Maglor sings, and in the morning they get up and Maglor does his best to teach Tauriel everything he ever knew about Ambarussa's (and Celegorm's) fighting style, which she takes to with gusto. She's getting better all the time, and Maglor is grateful that sparring had always been a practical past-time in Beleriand. He's plenty to teach her. 

The one problem with her fighting—or, not a problem, but something that is holding her back, and that _would have_ been a problem in the Beleriand that Maglor had fought in, is that she doesn't use her power in her strikes. And Maglor has no idea whatsoever about how to get her to do so. A suggestion that she use more power resulted in her upping the physical strength of her blows, and the innate Elven magic that made one stronger and swifter than any of the Edain, but not any increase in the use of purposeful Power, the so-called craft magic—

And oh, maybe that's the issue.

In truth, now that Maglor thinks about it, when he'd had the chance he'd never paid enough attention to know if the Sindar or Avari used craft magic in the way the Noldor did, and once he'd had the chance, he'd never ventured close enough to Elven populations for fear of being recognized. Certainly, Elrond had shown skill in songcraft and herblore; but Elrond had been half-Elven, and with Maiar blood besides... though he'd been as much Noldor as Tauriel. Maybe this cause isn't lost.

What are the odds that, with no other Noldor around, Tauriel simply doesn't _know_ she has a craft?

That night at dinner—and Maglor really has to give it to her; despite centuries riding patrols he'd never been able to cook camp food nearly half this good—he brings it up.

"Tauriel, pardon that I never asked this earlier, but what is your craft?" The baffled look this earns him is as good an answer as any. And also an indication that this may be harder than previously anticipated—how much to reveal, and how much to keep secret, pressed close to his chest so that she will never guess his identity?

"Craft?" she asks after a moment, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand in a gesture that brings to mind Ambarussa. "You mean woodcraft?"

He doesn't. "No, I mean—well, when I sing, I channel the very magic of Arda, yes?" Tauriel's eyebrows rise at the statement, but then flatten out again as she realizes that what he says is true. "Songcraft is where I excel, and so—" Maglor pauses. He's not sure how many of the stories of the sons of Fëanor have passed into Avari lore, or are recounted in Thranduil's kingdom. Nothing good, to be sure. But still... this is his grandniece. For her, Maglor will risk it. "—and so, when I need to fight, I sing, and that channels the Power I glean from Arda into my fighting."

Tauriel's eyes light up. "Can you show me?"

Really, Maglor should have known this was where it was going. He takes another mouthful of food, contemplating the question. His hands don't hurt _too_ badly right now, all things considered. He swallows, and nods. "Alright. After dinner." Tauriel eats noticeably quicker, though she still makes an attempt at polite conversation. Much politer than any of Maglor's younger brothers had ever been, and it makes him smile.

With dinner done, fire banked and their hands and faces cleaned, Maglor directs Tauriel to stand as his opponent. His knife is held firmly in his hand, the pain that the action causes firmly and stubbornly ignored. He can get through one demonstration.

"First, without song. Charge at me. Don't pull your blows." Tauriel gives him a dubious look, but does as he directs. Maglor parries and feints before striking himself, pausing just with his knifepoint at the hollow underneath Tauriel's jaw. Her eyes are wide. Maglor backs away, massaging the back of his hand, as if that will help with the pain. Still— "Now, with song. Same as last time."

This time, though, when Tauriel begins to move, Maglor begins to sing. It's old words, mostly Quenya, and Maglor makes sure to dampen the effects, purposefully leaving out words or shifting the tune by a step or two. Even so, he can feel the song taking action—everything seems sharper, somehow, Tauriel moving slower or Maglor faster, Tauriel's ears flattening in fear, pain and weariness lifting from Maglor, the song settling stiffly like a long-unused cloak around his being—

And then he yanks it off, teeth clicking together as he stops the flow of power.

 _"Oh,"_ Tauriel says, stepping gingerly away from Maglor. Her ears, though no longer flattened, still aren't fully upright. "I think I understand now."

Maglor gives her a wan smile. "That is but a portion of it—battlesong was... designed for war, and is best kept there. I ask about your craft because it is still better to know how to utilize your Power than not, even if you never have cause to." _As I hope you never have cause to,_ he thinks, but doesn't say. Tauriel nods, almost consideringly, and Maglor takes the moment to force his aching hand to let go of the knife. Pulling back each finger causes a fission of burning pain to shoot through the old scar tissue. The knife falls to the ground, and Tauriel looks at Maglor. He refuses to meet her eyes as he uses his other hand to gather it up.

"I don't think I have any craft," she says eventually, sitting back down around the crumbling embers of their fire. Maglor sits at well. He lets the silence hang for a moment, considering once again what to say.

"It may not always be an obvious _craft._ One of my brothers would never miss his mark when shooting, for example; another could follow the faintest of tracks in the forest, and through consequence also manage to never leave his own. They told me that to apply their magic elsewhere, it was just a matter of envisioning their craft—to make a tree grow, it was an arrow shooting upwards; to kill an Orc, it was picturing the Orc as a track better left unseen, and the like." Maglor leaves out the part of Celebrimbor and Curufin, who could forge enchantments into sword and jewelry alike; Tauriel would know about enchanted jewelry. Then, as an addendum: "Not that we were all limited by the bounds of craft, of course. Most Elves that I knew could work at least some power through song, even if it wasn't their craft as it is mine."

"I'll... I'll have to think about it."

Maglor nods. "Of course."

They talk a bit more, about other things, and then retire to their cloaks for a few hours of sleep. The sight of Ëarendil winking in the sky, just above the horizon, is the last thing Maglor sees before drifting off.

It isn't until the last day of their usual four-day reunion that Tauriel brings up the topic of crafts again.

"I think," she says carefully, as though the words are heavy in her mouth, "I might have skill in carving?" Maglor tries his best to smile warmly at her, though his features probably aren't good for that, after thousands of years of only tormented expressions and sorrow.

"And what makes you think that?"

Tauriel looks uncomfortable at that. "I don't know. I've just... always taken to it? Others tell me my carvings are good..."

"Mm," Maglor says. "Then I propose a test. Carve me a compass." That had been how Curvo had tested his apprentices and workers, during the long years that his forges had never been unlit; if their craft was truly in metalwork, then the compass would work regardless of the metal. If not, then their skill was due to practice—not devalued, and not unneeded, but unable to enchant swords with bloodlust, and other such things. Wood is no metal, but the principle should remain the same. Tauriel, though, is frowning.

"A compass?"

Maglor nods. "If it is truly your craft, and you channel your Power into your carving, then no matter how it falls, it will always point north." Tauriel's eyes widen with comprehension, and she nods.

"I'll... try." She pulls out a small carving knife, and then rummages through their stack of firewood for a good piece, snapping it smaller with her hands before turning the remaining chunk of wood around. Then she pauses. "I have no idea what I'm doing," she mutters. Maglor grins.

"We never do, at first. It's... a feeling, impossible to describe. The closest I can think of would be... carve with _intent._ You are telling this wood that it _will_ always point north, no matter how it's tossed; I would sing to it, but you will carve that knowledge into it, you see?"

Tauriel looks doubtful, but she nods grimly and set to work. Within seconds, Maglor sees the tension leave her body as she begins to curl wisps of wood off the larger block; within minutes, it takes the shape of a bird with wings outstretched, and Maglor fancies he can see a faint glow of working magic around her. He settles in to wait.

In the end, it isn't more than twenty minutes until Tauriel tosses the carving into the air, and then looks intently at how it lands amidst the grass. She turns to Maglor, a look of barely suppressed emotion on her face.

"I think it works?"

Silently, Maglor holds out a hand, and Tauriel, equally wordlessly, places the carving into it. It's a small thrush, wings spread and feathered details realistic enough that it looks as though it could actually fly, if it had a mind to. Maglor tosses it up. It falls on its stomach, beak pointed firmly north. Maglor tries again, with the same result. Then he looks at Tauriel. She shuffles closer, tentatively reaching for it.

Maglor presses the carving into her hand with both of his, trying to put into touch all the emotion he can't say in words.

"Well done."

Maglor laughs himself to tears when he realizes. Tauriel, for her part, looks up from her newest carving with confusion and not a small amount of concern.

"What's so funny?" she asks, after several minutes of Maglor intermittently curling up on the ground, clutching his stomach.

"It—it really is _wood craft_ ," he wheezes.

Tauriel gives him the kind of smile that people give when they understand why you think something is funny, but also don't think it's funny themselves.

Maglor laughs even harder.

* * *

This is the first time since Tauriel joined the honor guard that she's actually had to _guard_. The Orc party, armored in rough, black iron and bearing weapons of the same, had sprung up on them, outnumbered them, and almost killed one of the Easterlings. Ruel had taken a knife to the upper arm, while Tauriel had gotten off lightly, with only the hem of her longest jerkin ripped. Still, it's for this reason that Ruel rides behind Tauriel as she goes to her usual meeting with Lindimaitar.

Leaving Ruel alone in the presence of Orc parties would be dangerous, not to mention rude.

Tauriel's also concerned about Lindimaitar, truth be told. there's no doubt the old Elf is capable of defending himself—Tauriel _still_ can't beat him in sparring, even after decades of tutoring—but Tauriel also isn't as blind as to not notice that something is seriously wrong with his hands, no matter how he covers them with gloves. And if they got too tired or too weak or too pained to hold a weapon in the midst of a fight...

At least it isn't a problem for now, she thinks, smiling at the familiar voice now raised in song. Firaithel whickers, picking up the speed of her trot, and Rochtal follows her lead.

Lindimaitar doesn't seem surprised to see two horses arriving at his camp instead of one. He stands, bows graciously, and extends a hand in greeting.

"You must be the famous Ruel," he says, and Ruel laughs, put at ease by Lindimaitar's open and relaxed demeanor. She dismounts, and returns the gesture.

"Indeed I am. Well met, famous Lindimaitar."

"Well met," he returns with a smile. Tauriel lets out a quiet sigh of relief, and dismounts as well.

"Hail, Lindimaitar," she calls in their traditional greeting.

"Hail, Tauriel." Lindimaitar goes quiet for a moment, looking between the two of them. "Why don't you two see to getting a meal ready," he says at last. "I'll tend to the horses."

Ruel seems skeptical at first, but follows Tauriel when Tauriel leaves Firaithel in Lindimaitar's care. they prepare the meal quietly, moving together in ways borne of long habit and easy familiarity, until Lindimaitar arrives and sits next to their fire.

"So. You were attacked by Orcs." His eyes glitter with the rage and sorrow Tauriel has come to associate with him thinking of his past. Tauriel doesn't ask how he knows—Firaithel probably told him.

"Yes," she says instead.

"The first time in—several hundred years, at least," Ruel adds. Tauriel can tell they're thinking the same thing: they'll have to add Elves to the guard, just to be safe. No longer just a token show of honoring a thousand-year-old trading treaty. If Thranduil will even allow it, of course.

"Not that it was entirely unexpected," Tauriel mutters. Lindimaitar tilts his head inquiringly. "There's been a resurgence in spider numbers, in the Greenwood."

"Foul things," Ruel says, nose wrinkling.

"Spawn of Ungoliant..." Lindimaitar's voice is hushed.

Tauriel purses her lips, annoyed now that she's thinking about it. "They come and darken our forest, and yet Thranduil will not even let us leave our borders to track down their origins... and now Orc parties on the plains!"

"The world darkens again, as it does from time to time," Lindimaitar muses. "But tell me—were either of you injured?" They both shake their heads.

"Just a scratch," Ruel says, showing her arm where the wound is still bound in white linen. Lindimaitar's ears flatten, and he looks alarmed; then, quickly as it came, the fear fades again.

"Your healing—you heal with herbs."

Tauriel and Ruel exchange a glance.

"Yes? Do you not?"

Lindimaitar shakes his head, rueful smile on his face. "I only know two ways of healing—as the hröa does on its own, and through song. One of my—one of my wards had great skill in herblore, but I confess I never had the time nor inclination to learn from him then." He pauses. "Might I request that you teach me, now? I would be happy to trade that knowledge with you." Before Tauriel can answer, Ruel leans forward.

"Heal with song? I've heard only great Elves such as the Lady Galadriel and Lord Elrond can do that. King Thranduil sometimes, though I've heard it tires him greatly."

Lindimaitar nods, smiling faintly. Even after knowing him for over a century, Tauriel has trouble understanding the turns of his mind.

"Yes, they would be able to. All Elves can, to some extent. But we all vary in how much energy it would consume. Still, there are times where it may be the best recourse."

"Can you show us?" Ruel asks. In response, Lindimaitar holds out a hand, his fingers stiff and unyielding. Ruel scoots closer, until he can cover her injury with his palm.

Then he begins to sing.

Tauriel has only seen him use his Power twice—once, a decade after they'd first met, when he'd demonstrated his battlesong, and again several years later, when he'd coaxed a fire to hold warm during a particularly fierce storm. both times, it had been incredible, and Tauriel doesn't blame Ruel for leaning back in shock. Lindimaitar's eyes are glowing, white as starlight, and Power, blue as a jay's wing, radiates off him like mist.

And, as always, as soon as he stops singing, it all dissipates, his eyes returning quickly to their usual slate grey.

Ruel's wound, when she unwraps the linen binding, is gone, of course.

Ruel herself is looking at Lindimaitar with suspicion in her eyes, but holds her peace, and says nothing. Tauriel is grateful. She can imagine what Ruel is thinking, for the same thoughts have often crossed her own mind. Old and from the West, with a vast knowledge of warfare and Power to rival even the greatest of Elven lords; Lindimaitar can only be one of the Returning Elves, the Kinslayers of the First Age.

Who, precisely, Tauriel hasn't worked out, yet; she doesn't know enough about the followers of the greatest Returning Elves to know who he may have served. She's not going to ask, of course. He'll have his reasons for staying silent.

"...so I can teach you that, if you would like. Or some version of it," Lindimaitar says into the ensuing silence. He looks tired. Ruel prods at the lack of wound before answering.

"I'd be honored," she says, and Tauriel doesn't think she's imagining the relief that falls over Lindimaitar. Or maybe it's just the tiredness, settling in deeper. Lindimaitar has always struck her as being tired, much the same way old mortals are—ready to leave. She wonders why he doesn't just sail, as she's seen many an Elf do, but again, it's not her place to ask.

"I would, as always, be grateful to learn anything you're willing to teach me," Tauriel says, and Lindimaitar smiles at her, genuine joy perking his ears upwards ever so slightly. "Tomorrow, though," she adds, and Lindimaitar's smile becomes a grin. He's never taught her anything the first night, in all their years of meeting, and isn't about to start now either, apparently. 

The three of them settle in for sleep, confident in Firaithel and Rochtal's ability to stand guard. Before Tauriel can drift off, however, Ruel reaches out, placing her palm flat on Tauriel's cheek.

 _You must know who he is, right?_ she asks into Tauriel's mind. 

_I can guess as well as you can_ , Tauriel replies. _But he's been teaching me for over a hundred years, now._

 _You're so trusting,_ Ruel comments, but the strength of affection behind the words belies any ill will they might bring.

 _Not trusting,_ Tauriel counters. _I just don't want to let the world pass me by, because I closed myself off in fear._

Laughter, sweet and joyous over their mental connection. _And don't we know it_. A few seconds pass.

 _You feel it, don't you?_ Tauriel asks. _That—there's such a big world around here, so much to see and learn—it's a waste to close our borders._

Ruel's answer is the impression of a smile tinged with sadness. _No, not really. I would be content to stay within the eaves of the Greenwood. There is time yet, for exploring._

Tauriel muffles the impatience within herself, so that Ruel won't feel it, too. Impatience, and frustration. There might not always _be_ time, why don't more people understand that? Her parents had died, she'd been left an orphan. Maybe they'd also thought there'd be plenty of time. And instead, only death.

And even if there _was_ time—why did everything have to happen _later?_

 _Would that I could be as settled as you,_ she finally replies.

_No, you wouldn't. Otherwise, you wouldn't be you._

Tauriel smiles at that, Ruel's thumb gently stroking her cheek. Maybe Ruel's content to remain in the Greenwood until time immemorial, and Tauriel isn't, but Ruel's still a good friend.

 _In any case,_ Ruel goes on to add, _Now that it's been mentioned, I_ am _tired, so, you know. Good night, and all that._

 _Good night,_ Tauriel returns, and then Ruel withdraws her hand, and Tauriel's mind is silent once more. She falls asleep watching the stars arching their way overhead.

True to his word, Lindimaitar spends the next three days drilling Tauriel and Ruel in healing song magic, and absorbing as much information as he can get from the two of them on healing herbs, as well. He teaches them a small song in that not-Sindarin of his, breaking down the verses for cleaning out infection, repairing bone and skin, or stopping blood flow; then a short ditty for bone aches and stomach troubles. In return, Tauriel gives him her medicinal kit, since the two of them can simply use Ruel's, should anything come up, and teaches him about athelas and yarrow, and the properties of willow bark and poppyseed.

To Tauriel in particular, whose carving prowess grows every year, Lindimaitar instructs her to imagine the wound as a carving—carve out infection, cleave two pieces together, or even build them back up. For this, Tauriel gives him a charm she's made after a years' worth of grappling with the Power in her free time; the carved face changes to show the weather. It isn't particularly useful, as it can't predict anything, just reflect the current conditions, but Tauriel can't think of anyone better to gift it to. Lindimaitar holds it reverently before tucking it into one of his innermost pockets. "I'll treasure it," he tells her, and sounds like he means it.

It's... more reassuring and touching than Tauriel knows what to do with, really. 

Then comes the night before they are due to leave, and Lindimaitar is being difficult: Tauriel and Ruel have been made to recite a stanza about healing old wounds until they have the pronunciation down perfectly, which means at least fifty rounds of the same verses. After one last, terse nod, Tauriel decides to brave asking Lindimaitar a question that has bugged her for years. 

"Then... your hands?" she asks. Lindimaitar freezes. He looks at her, then away, and finally back again. 

"Nothing will heal them."

"Does it hurt?"

"All wounds hurt. And not all—not all can or deserve to be healed." Lindimaitar's eyes are vacant, staring at nothing. Ruel catches Tauriel's eye, then glances pointedly at Lindimaitar's hands. Tauriel gets the message, and as one, they reach out and take Lindimaitar's hands, one each, in their own, and begin to sing the words they have by now so painstakingly learned by heart. In her mind's eye, Tauriel sees the old wounds, thick and crusted and rough, like a carving in its initial stages. She uses her Power, grateful as always that Lindimaitar has taught her how to feel it within herself, to smooth out the roughness, like passing a fine-grained sandstone over the rough edges of oak. 

As if by mutual agreement, Tauriel and Ruel sing another round, and Tauriel sands away at the edges of the wound. When they finally stop, and Tauriel opens her eyes—she hadn't even realized they were closed, when did she close them?—Lindimaitar is staring at his hands, and tears are streaming silently down his face. Tauriel is gripped by the sudden fear that they did something wrong, maybe mispronounced a key word, or—

"Thank you," Lindimaitar whispers. His breathing is steady and calm, but his voice is scratchy, as though the tears have been falling for days. "Thank you," he says again, and then leans doward and drags both Ruel and Tauriel into a hug, holding them close to his chest. He's warm. Minute trembles run throughout his body, and Tauriel brings up an arm to circle around him, as well. He pulls them tighter to him, murmuring thank you once again, and as Tauriel relaxes into the warmth and strength and conviction of it all, she wonders if this is what it's like to have a family. 

Lindimaitar leaves them again the next day with words of caution, both against the Orcs, and against overextending themselves when singing to heal. Then, as is custom, he sings a song of swift travels and fair grasses; this time, though, Tauriel feels something like protection wash over her, as Lindimaitar disappears into the rolling hills behind them. 

* * *

The second Lindimaitar sees her, Tauriel is pulled into a hug that is equal parts physical and mental. The sheer affection of it is overwhelming, and the tears that Tauriel’s managed to keep suppressed these past few days—they all come rushing out.

Lindimaitar holds her tight through all of it as she sobs into his shoulder, his hands running up and down her back soothingly. As her tears slow, Lindimaitar starts rocking back and forth. Tauriel feels like a child again, but not in a demeaning way: just protected, and loved.

It almost makes everything worse.

When she finally wrests herself under her own control again, Lindimaitar tucks her hair behind her ears.

“Tell me what happened,” he says. His voice is low and calm, reassuring to its core; and Tauriel—no one has _asked_ her before.

This is how the story comes out, in fits and pieces: of three weeks spent guarding a prisoner in Thranduil’s dungeons (three weeks of being charmed by a prisoner, three weeks of sharing stories and dreams and _memories_ , precious as starlight); of fleeing Thranduil’s halls because of a conviction that the matters of the world don’t end at one’s doorstep (Ruel away on a patrol in the south, only Legolas to take her side); of injuries and healing and diplomacy and war and the sudden, crumbling shock of death, again and again and again.

Of her exile.

It’s been a few months, now, Tauriel thinks—distances are covered differently without Firaithel, and Tauriel hasn’t kept the closest track of the rise and fall of the moon (not even the whirling of the stars can make her smile, now), but it’s warmer and Lindimaitar is here and so—it’s been a few months, but the pain of losing Kíli and her home is still sharp.

Lindimaitar says nothing while she recounts the story, just holds her close as she half talks, half cries it all into the open.

Exhausted by the end of her telling, Tauriel falls asleep in Lindimaitar’s arms.

She wakes up that way, too.

Lindimaitar is humming. Not a song of Power, but a simple tune that sounds the way a field of grass bending to the wind looks. Soft, calming.

Tauriel’s head feels clearer than it has in a while, though. And the ache in her chest lighter.

“Thank you,” she mumbles. Lindimaitar’s ears twitch, but he shows no other sign of surprise when he looks at her, just a look of deep calm, and sadness-that-is-not-pity.

“I would do the same a thousand times over, if need be,” he pronounces. The conviction of it runs deep. Then his gaze softens. “I met some traders from Harad a few weeks ago. I have dates from them, and a fish I stumbled upon earlier today. What say you to some warm food?”

Lindimaitar is the one who does the cooking, this time, while Tauriel sits near the fire and watches, numb to the world and wrapped tight in one of Lindimaitar’s scarves. The fish is good, though a touch underseasoned, and the dates are sweet and sticky on her tongue.

She does feel better, with a full stomach. Not much, but it’s enough to allow her to slip unimpeded into sleep. Lindimaitar’s humming probably helped, though.

Halfway through the night, Tauriel wakes up with the pressing need to—to _go,_ to _leave,_ to walk until her feet ache and she has no _choice_ but to stop. As much as she likes Lindimaitar, she knows she won’t be able to stay their usual four days’ time.

She tells him as much when he wakes, the soft light of dawn bathing the both of them in pink and gold, beautiful and delicate as spring flowers. For a moment, Tauriel is overcome by the beauty of it all. She wishes Kíli could see it. Her eyes water, and she fights away the tears.

Lindimaitar seems hesitant to say anything, but finally, he clears his throat. “I would offer you my help, if I could.”

Tauriel shakes her head. “This is… I think I understand you better, now. This is something I need to… to do alone.”

He nods. Sympathy is light in his eyes. “Should you ever wish to share your burden, come find me. Until then, may your boots be ever watertight.”

“And your scarf warm,” Tauriel replies with a chuckle, instead of crying. She’s cried so much already. She doesn’t want to cry here, again. She needs to leave. At least then, if she cries, there’s only the wind and the sun to be witness.

As is their habit, limpid song dogs her footsteps, until even that distance is too great. It’s only several hours after that that Tauriel realizes she still has Lindimaitar’s scarf around her neck. She buries her face into it. It smells like family.

* * *

It’s been—sixty years? Seventy?—it’s been a while since Maglor has seen Tauriel. He’s returned to Rhovanion every year, even though it limits how far he can travel in the rest of the year, simply out of hope, but he hadn’t actually expected to see her today; so when she crosses a rise, on foot and in wildly different clothes than she had been in last time, Maglor is surprised.

Very pleasantly so, actually.

He stands and walks to meet her, his step buoyed by happiness and—if he’s not lying to himself—no small modicum of relief to see her here, alive, hale and whole and much better off than she had been last time. Her hair is cropped short, above the shoulder. The grief is still visible, in her eyes and her bearing, and he knows it will likely always be, but it is no longer overpowering her. That’s all any of them can ask for, really.

Once they’re within shouting distance, Maglor raises a hand in Sindarin greeting.

“Hail, Tauriel!” he all but sings.

Tauriel cocks her head, and Maglor has a sudden sinking feeling in the second before she speaks.

“Hello, granduncle,” she replies, a wry smile on her face.

“Ha,” Maglor says, his entire body frozen in place. Even the grin won’t wipe itself off his cheeks, stuck there as if sculpted.

“Or should I say, Maglor Fëanorion?” she continues, crossing her arms. It’s hard to get a read on her; Maglor can’t tell if she’s genuinely angry or not. It’s this distressing thought that unfreezes him—he doesn’t want his family to hate him.

“You—I mean—yes. You found out?” He really doesn’t mean for it to come out as a question, but there it is.

“Yes. Why did you never tell me?” And now, finally, Tauriel looks truly hurt. Or maybe Maglor’s just projecting, because he would probably be hurt if someone lied to him, but he’s shaking just a little when he answers.

“I was scared.”

Tauriel considers this for a second. Maglor doesn’t dare say anything. Then she sighs loudly, and plops to the ground, legs folded criss-cross in front of her. She squints up at Maglor against the sun. “I guess I can’t really blame you.”

Maglor sinks slowly to the ground next to her. “How—?”

Tauriel shrugs. “I met Círdan, out in the West. I wanted to see the Grey Havens for myself, but—anyways, he was there. He said the same thing to me that you did, that first time. ‘Pityo’. Only that time I actually asked what it meant. And he told me.” She stops for a second, pulling up grass in clumps and letting the blades drift back down before looking at Maglor again. “I almost didn’t believe it was true, until now. But—I mean. You really think I’m your grandniece.”

“Without a doubt,” Maglor says, probably too quickly. “You—you remind me of my brothers, sometimes. As they were before the Oath took them.” Now it’s his turn to pause, to consider what he’s allowed to say next. “But Tauriel, even if you weren’t blood family, I still—I still love you,” he says, using the version of ‘I love you’ reserved for family.

“…thank you,” Tauriel says after a tense moment. She looks small, hunched over as she is. “Can you… can you tell me about them? All—well. Most of the stories I’ve heard so far aren’t. _Good._ But… and I know that if you’re—if you’re really _Maglor_ , then you’ve done horrible things, too.” Maglor can’t even hide his wince at that, most of all because it’s true. “But you’ve always been kind to me, and to Ruel, and Firaithel, and you’ve been dishonest but I’m not sure I would have told anyone if that was my secret, and… well.” She makes eye contact with him. Noldorin as parts of her may be, the greenness of her eyes is pure Avari. “I guess I just want to know more about my family.”

“Well,” Maglor says slowly, “That I can do. I—I am Maglor Fëanorion, and most likely, all the things you’ve heard about me are true. Or else the truth is worse. The First Age… was not kind to any of us, but to my brothers least of all.”

“Can I—can I still call you Lindimaitar,” Tauriel says, rushing the words together so that they’re almost one. “ _Maglor_ just… I know you as Lindimaitar.”

Warmth suffuses Maglor’s chest as he nods. “Of course.”

Tauriel smiles at him. “Thanks. Lindimaitar. Sorry for interrupting.”

Maglor waves it off. “In any case… the First Age was hard, but before that—we were raised in Valinor, among some of the greatest cities of Elvendom. Perhaps only Menegroth and Gondolin of old could have rivalled Tirion, or Formenos, or even Alqualondë. But we were raised there, and we did much as we pleased. And your grandfather, Pityafinwë, was the second youngest of us seven—”

Maglor talks for what is probably hours. Tauriel listens to every word, rapt, as Maglor recounts the bright and glorious days of life in Aman, and what it was like to live in such a large and boisterous family as the Elves of modern Middle Earth don’t know; he tells Tauriel of the prank wars between the Ambarussa that grew to ensnare the entire family, and of how sometimes, they would ride with Celegorm in Oromë’s train, and how both of them preferred hunting knives and bows to any sword or spear (though Amrod was better at knives, and Amras at the bow).

He tells her also about the darker times, and how sparring became a pastime and that’s how he knows all the forms he’s taught her; he tells her also about Elrond and Elros, when she asks about healing. He doesn’t know who Amrod could have had a child with, because during that time he was likely riding the Gap and the Ambarussa hunting in the great forests of Ossiriand with the Green Elves, but clearly, a child there was, because Tauriel exists now.

She looks a lot like him, Maglor also tells her.

“Tell me about the rest, now, too,” Tauriel demands after a while. Maglor looks away, the joy that those happy memories brought him seeping away.

But he can’t and won’t deny Tauriel this. So he tells her about the slow descent into madness for the seven of them, of betrayals and double-crossings and the constant, constant pull of the Oath, driving them to ever greater levels of desperation. The Ambarussa died at Sirion, killed in the third and final Kinslaying.

They deserved it least of all, dragged into a war they never asked for. They spent most of their time _hunting_. Mandos’ Doom cared little enough about that, in the end.

“And the Silmarils?” Tauriel presses.

“Maedhros took one with him when he—when he jumped. I threw the other back to Ulmo, and have heard nothing of it since.”

“Is the Oath broken, then?”

“I… don’t know. My head has been clear as it once was in Aman since Maedhros died, but… it was also then that the Silmarils were all finally too far away to grasp. I could not say.”

They lapse into silence. It’s not uncomfortable—was only ever so at the beginning of their days together, really. Maglor has given Tauriel much to think about, as well. The sun is now in the last stages of setting, and Maglor uses the time to get a small fire started. He hadn’t brought much in the way of food; alone, he doesn’t feel the need to eat much, and he hadn’t truly _expected_ Tauriel to show up.

She, on the other hand, came prepared. A wrapped package of venison, woven through with a stasis spell, emerges from her pack as soon as she takes notice of what Maglor’s doing. Together and in silence, they finish cooking the meal. Some of the fat drips down from the meat, sizzling into the fire and filling the air with mouth-watering scent.

It’s equally delicious to eat.

Tauriel proposes wandering together, the next day.

They stay together for two cycles of the moon.

More stories are shared, of their respective wanderings. Tauriel speaks more of Kíli and Ruel and her friends and colleagues in the Greenwood, Maglor of his brothers and the two he considers his sons.

Maglor had almost forgotten, but…

It’s nice, to exist with another Elf again.

“You know,” Tauriel says one day, as they’re relaxing under the shade of a large cottonwood. “I don’t think Lord Elrond or Lord Círdan would be mad at you, anymore.” Maglor makes a sound that should have been a laugh, but sounds more like a distressed bark. “Especially not Círdan. He said… a lot of things, really, but also that you’ve paid your penance, and you should feel free to sail, if you so choose.”

Maglor gives her a stink eye. “I’m glad you delivered that message right away,” he says acerbically, instead of admitting that he’s been penitent for so long he doesn’t know what he’d do if—if it was really over.

If he could… he’s spent so long alone and only now that he has Tauriel for company does he realize how lonely he’s been, all these thousands of years. He’s met plenty of people, Elves and Men and Dwarves and Hobbits alike, but he’s never let himself grow close. Certainly never stay with them for as long as he’s stayed with Tauriel.

The thought of going back to the way things were even just two short months ago is excruciating.

“ _Have_ you ever wished to sail?” Tauriel looks at Maglor with inquisitive eyes, and he does his best not to squirm.

“I—” He stops, and swallows. He’s not sure how to answer that, and in the end, he settles for the truth. “I used to. I _do._ Valinor was my home, though I don’t know if I truly believe it to be so, any longer. But I also… I fear it. No other way would I be forced to face all those I have wronged, and so immediately… and yet, in no other way can I right those wrongs, or at least. Try to.” He looks down at his hands. The gloves that he always wears are still there, but he’s more than familiar enough with the scars that cover their full surface. Slowly, he closes his fists, the pink and shiny skin pulling uncomfortably. It’s been better ever since Ruel and Tauriel sang together, all those years ago. “I don’t know.”

“I don’t know, either,” Tauriel says after several minutes. “I think—I want to meet my parents, as more than the vague memories I have. But I also love Middle Earth, with its trees and its wild plains and its stars. And… I need to return to Mirkwood again. I miss my friends, and Legolas who was like a brother to me, though I hear that he has made a name for himself in the War of the Ring. And even King Thranduil. And the rest of the world… I have discovered in these past years that the world is so broad and so varied, and there’s so much to see…” She trails off, and Maglor gets it. He sideways until their shoulders are touching.

“There’s no need to rush,” he says.

She gives him a wry smile. “I could say the same to you.”

He returns the smile. “That you could, that you could. But you won’t, because you are a kind and respectful niece.”

“Ha!” she replies, but the smile fades quickly.

“You know… your family will wait for you.” The look Tauriel gives him as he says so is so distressed that Maglor questions if he’s said something wrong altogether.

“And what if they don’t? It was—it was so long ago, and I was so small, and—”

Maglor decides this is the point to cut her off. “I know they will, because I know at least some of your family. And no Elf—no Elf in their right mind _forgets_ their children, no matter how small they were when they last saw each other.”

Tauriel’s head makes a soft sound as it thunks back against the tree behind her. “You know, Imladris really is the most welcoming of places I’ve ever been.”

“We’re talking about _you_ right now.”

“I’m just saying.”

Maglor sighs. Another few minutes pass as Maglor considers _this_ new thought, in turn. Tauriel is really hitting hard with her statements, today, and for some reason, it makes everything seem… _closer,_ somehow. Like he really _could_ go to Imladris, and see Elrond again. See Elrond again… the very thought has his chest tightening.

…he really wants to.

“We can wander westwards together. Imladris is generally over there,” Tauriel offers up. She pauses for a second. “Uncle Lindimaitar,” she adds, finally; nervously, like she’s trying it out and not certain about it. Maglor smiles broadly back at her, warm.

“I like the sound of that,” he replies.

* * *

When they sail, eventually, it is together. Elrond left a while ago, Elladan and Elrohir more recently; Legolas had told Tauriel he planned to sneak his husband with him, and apparently managed to do so. Thranduil remains in Middle Earth, as will Ruel, but there has been time enough now for all to come to terms with their decisions.

Ruel, in fact, comes to see them off at the harbor.

Maglor waits on the ship while Tauriel and Ruel say their last goodbyes. It’s not forever—it is the fate of Elves to see each other again before Dagor Dagorath—but that knowledge doesn’t necessarily make long partings any easier. Maglor would know.

Tauriel and Ruel hug for several minutes, and Tauriel presses something small and carved into Ruel’s hand. Ruel clutches it tightly, and hugs Tauriel once more. And then it is time to leave, and Tauriel boards the ship while Ruel mounts up, and they still wave at each other until the line of the horizon brings them out of sight.

The trip itself is nothing out of the ordinary. Several weeks at sea, the waters calm and rough in turn, though never so much that the sailors can’t handle it. Maglor rather thinks they’re having fun, hopping their slender-keeled ship across the crests of waves. He, personally, has less fun, involuntarily clutching the rails with as much strength as he can muster whenever the ship so much as sways.

He thinks Ossë is probably laughing at him.

Tricky maia aside, the first sight of land on their forward horizon shakes Maglor to the core. It has been near seven thousand years since he last saw those shores, pitched into the endless night before the moon and sun. He’s—he’s not sure what to expect.

Of course, distances at sea are deceptive, and it’s another eight days of anxious horizon-staring before they’re close enough to make out any sort of important detail. Such as the color of the mountains that rise up beyond the beaches, and the brilliant terra cotta and blue color of the roofs of the port they’re sailing to.

It’s Alqualondë. Maglor takes a shivering breath. Tauriel, ever sharp, notices.

“Uncle Lindimaitar,” she says, placing a grounding hand on his shoulder. She doesn’t say anything more, but Maglor takes comfort in memories of dozens of conversations they’ve had before. He can’t undo his past, but he _will_ do his best now.

And besides, the only way at this point to _not_ go would be to go overboard, and Maglor respects the sea and has spent centuries wandering by it and despite that (or possibly because of it), he does not want to find himself afloat in it.

They disembark the ship at the same time, Tauriel a half-step before Maglor. There’s a general milling around the dock, as they’re not the only Elves to be arriving; the crowd isn’t thick enough to be oppressive, but Maglor fights the temptation to draw his hood up nonetheless.

Next to him, Tauriel lets out a gasp.

He turns to watch her run towards her parents—they must be, the ellon has her face and the elleth her hair—and only once he sees the parents of her parents standing there does it really hit Maglor that he’s… _here._

In Aman.

Quite suddenly, the entire thought is overwhelming, and Maglor does what he does best—he clutches his cloak to himself, ready to duck away and out of sight, so as to not have to deal with it at all.

He’s stopped, quite literally, by a broad chest blocking his way. Maglor reels back, rubbing his nose a little, and the Elf in question that he ran into laughs. The complaint dies on Maglor’s lips as he hears that familiar sound, and looks up to see the second-tallest of his brothers, an understated grin on his face as he holds his arms out to Maglor.

“Caranthir?” he manages to wheeze out. He must be a sight right now; his limbs are trembling like beech leaves, he can barely suck in enough breath, and—well. It’s been thousands of years and Maglor won’t lie and say he took good care of himself the entire time.

Caranthir, for his part, nods, and shuffles closer to Maglor. “I’m going to hug you now,” he warns, voice thick with something Maglor doesn’t even want to think about. Maglor couldn’t have moved even if he’d wanted to, now, wrapped tightly in Caranthir’s embrace.

He hadn’t realized how much he’d missed them until now.

The tears come unbidden, his body shaking now not only with nerves with also with sobs, and Caranthir just holds him tighter. It’s a few seconds before Maglor realizes Caranthir’s also crying, but he doesn’t have enough time to process that before Caranthir’s arms are being pried apart, Celegorm in his usual graceful fashion almost clocking Maglor in the face _again_ as he takes over the hug. Maglor sobs anew, burying his face into the soft fur that Celegorm always wears.

Then comes Amras, then Curufin, then Amrod and his wife (his wife!) and their daughter and their daughter’s daughter who is Tauriel—

Maedhros is the last one to approach; he looks hesitant. Hesitant, and his hröa wears scars even now, but he’s whole and hale and a far cry from the wasted, nigh-skeletal creature he had been, when he’d taken the silmaril and himself both to their fate. For all Maglor had thought he had no more tears, he apparently has enough left for them to stream down his face.

His voice sounds funny, his nose blocked, as he gives Maedhros a trembling smile. “You look better,” he says. Maedhros laughs, and swipes at his eyes.

“Feel better, too,” he mumbles, and then Maglor gets a hug from his tallest brother, too. They cling to each other just a little bit longer than any of the others—they two, who had outlived all of them, and by extension had to weather all their deaths. When they finally pull apart, Maedhros keeps one arm around Maglor. Everyone is talking all at once, statements and questions flying every which way, and it’s almost too much for Maglor except that he’s missed it.

“Come on,” Celegorm says, finally. “Mom and Elrond stayed behind to get food ready—”

“No, she just didn’t want to deal with us—”

“Elrond said they didn’t want to overwhelm him!”

“—so we should get going, if that’s—Maglor?” Maglor waves off the plethora of concerned looks.

“I’m fine," he says, wiping his eyes again and willing his lower lip to stop trembling already. "I'm just—happy.”

They take his words for what they are after a few rounds of grumbling, and the whole pack starts to head off, Maglor trailing behind but never alone. Tauriel stays close to her parents, getting to know them beyond her childhood memories, and Maglor’s brothers drop in and out, asking questions and making jokes and generally loving each other. They’ll have their problems, but those can wait for another day. For now—

Maglor sighs happily, his heart relaxing.

He’s here, in Aman, and he’s loved.

(Then he gets home, and sees his mother and his son, and tears don’t stop for a long while after that.) 

**Author's Note:**

> i hope you enjoyed! 
> 
> fëanor himself isn't at the reunion in the end bc he's still in the halls (though now that his last son is returned, he'll be let out soon)


End file.
